


Not Quite Roses

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Series: Neasa Adaar [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 20:53:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2706371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neasa Adaar is a gentle soul; she dreams of roses and soft hands, tender endearments and warm lips pressed to her own.</p><p>The Iron Bull is not quite roses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Roses

Nose buried in the latest _Swords and Shields_ as she walks—and really, Cassandra’s right, it’s _addicting_ despite being absolute dreck—she yelps once she spots the massive figure sitting on her bed. The book tumbles out of her limp fingers.

“Bull? What are you doing here?”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees and shoulders so broad he could carry the world. “I’ve caught the hints. I get it. You want to ride the Bull.” And her cheeks heat to scorching and she’s so _grateful_ her skin’s too dark to show blush easily, because she can feel it crawl everywhere from the base of her horns to the tips of her ears. She hadn’t thought she’d been _that_ obvious and tries stammering a protest but Bull overrides her with a chuckled “can’t say I blame you. But I’m not sure you know what you’re asking.” His eyebrow quirks up and his eye is _beautiful_ , silver-green and strange and breathtaking amidst the scars and grey skin. She could fall forever in that gaze. “Not sure if you’re ready for it.”

“Bull, please—please just stop teasing.” Breath scrapes ragged past her tongue and she realizes she’s gulping hard and fast like a skittish mare, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. “I don’t—I don’t want this.” She stands knock-kneed, thighs pressed together in an effort to suppress the rush of heat that says yes, yes, she wants _this_ and she wants _him_ but the barriers around her heart are so much weaker than anything she can summon.

“Oh? Then what do all those little sighs and lingering glances mean?” He smiles, all sharp-toothed and magnificent and she catches smoke and spice wafting from him.

“It means I—I am not Qunari.” She fumbles the words and they fall like stones, heavy off her lips and maybe she’ll hurt him—and he does not deserve hurt, even if Ben-Hassrath agents haunted her parents’ tales and nightmares—but there are worlds of difference between Qunari and Tal-Vashoth and Vashoth and she does not think she will ever truly _understand_ him, but understanding is not necessary for lust. Understanding has nothing to do with the play of light over his muscles, the way his lips twist and pluck her heart, the way she blushes deep to her bones when he banters with Sera.

“I am not one of your serving girls. I do not want anything to change.” Her voice breaks, soft and pleading and she clasps one hand over the wrist of the other in distress, squeezing tight. “But I don’t know that I _can_ do this without things changing. So please, _please_ don’t play these little games. Tell me what _you_ want. Or if you’re just trying to scare me off.”

Sweet as stolen fruit he murmurs “I want to give you a _very_ good time.” He rises, stalking towards her and looming so tall—so tall, something so strange when surrounded by elves and dwarves and humans all day—and brushes his knuckles along her cheek. Her drumming heart echoes in her ears. “But I think you’re afraid of what that means.”

Somehow he’s backed her against the wall, cool stone leeching warmth through her thin shirt.

“Last chance to tell me you want this,” he breathes in her ear, pulling her hands up and over her head, his grip like iron under his calluses. The bristles of his beard rustle against her skin, her nerves flaring with sensation.

“Don’t go,” she whispers. “Now or after.” Because she _thinks_ she’ll be safe if she reminds herself it’s just sex, but she _knows_ he’ll break her heart if he leaves right after. “Please don’t leave. Please stay.” _Please let me feel loved, even if it’s only for one night_. One night to satisfy her curiosity and get rid of this fixation.

“When you ask so nicely…”

His lips descend on hers, crushing her like pressed petals and she _melts_ , knees weak and only propped up by the wall, her hands pinned against the stonework and his knee wedging between her thighs. His grip adjusts, circling both her wrists with one hand so his other can explore her, tracing the line of her jaw and unbuttoning her high-necked shirt.

She’s cold, so cold—shivering as he touches her, her body so hot against his leg, her nipples so hard they ache—but he’s so warm, trailing his lips down over her throat and kissing her, but ‘kiss’ is such an inadequate word for that combination of warm suction and _teeth_ and she moans high and loud, trailing into a squeak as he growls against her skin.

“I love the way you smell. Roses and strawberries and all the sweet little things. You like sweetness, Neasa?”

“Yes.”

He cups her breast, giving a pleased grunt as his thumb catches against the laciness of her bra. No matter how plain or unassuming her usual garb is around Skyhold, she savors the secret guilty pleasure of delicate underthings. Not so secret now at least—and his gaze rakes over her, the white lace over dark skin and she almost cries with how exposed and vulnerable this feels.

“Why are you so scared?”

His question takes her by surprise, and she forces herself to breathe slow and even as she considers her response. “You are… not quite roses, Bull.” Love and lovers have always been slow and gentle, tea and sweet cakes and stolen golden moments where two hands could lace together and her breathing would come slow and easy with all the comfortable familiarity of an unfurling bud.

“I have seen you in action, Neasa.” He nuzzles his nose against her ear, tickling his tongue over her skin. “You could place a barrier, even now. You could slam me back with just a whisper of magic.”

“I’m not you. Sex and fighting,” and love, love always the ghost that haunts her steps when she thinks of how unlikely any future with the Iron Bull really is, “are not—not things I want to mix up. I want to feel safe.”

“Neasa—“ and her name is so strange from his lips, a caress in words and she melts against him even as she shakes, “—you will _always_ be safe with me.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

So she submits to his touches, letting herself savor the soft rustle of cloth over flesh and the way his hand skims over her hip, tugging her pants down so they puddle about her ankles. He moves with easy confidence, tugging loose the ribbon binding her hair and running his fingers through the silver mass. She feels a little guilty not returning his touches, but that’s hardly her fault—not with him still pressing her against the wall and holding her hands. It’s nice, so _nice_ to let someone else take charge and when he finally pulls her to the bed she tries to wrap her arms around him but he keeps her wrists trapped.

“Let me take care of you, Neasa.”

How can she refuse? Not when he pushes her into the bed, her shoulders pressing into the pillow and her knees spread wide about his shoulders as he kisses her sex through the cloth panel, breath warm against her and the way he breathes her in, like scenting a fine bouquet makes her blush. He grins at her before pressing his lips to the side of her panties, teeth pinching the fabric and she _blushes_ deep and to her marrow. This should feel so unreal, like something from a bawdy song, but it’s _nice_ having him undress her with his teeth, pulling the panties low and finally snaking them off her feet before he settles between her thighs. She tries to reach down to grip his horns to guide him into place, but he shakes his head.

“Hands up, Neasa.”

So she crosses her wrists, resting them against the headboard and trying not to squirm as he kisses her belly and thighs, trailing ever closer but never where she _wants_ so she begs “Bull, please—please—“

“No. Not until you’re ready.”

“But I’m ready _now_.”

“You _think_ you are.” And he smiles at her, all wicked grace and she doesn’t think she’ll ever think of the card game the same way ever again because now she _understands_ it, the finesse and bluffs and unseen maneuvering that define its name. “You will always be safe with me.” He can’t know how much she clings to that promise, clutching for security against how her heart races and her palms grow clammy and how badly she _wants_ him, wants him deep and hot and aching like hunger but still so uncertain of what tomorrow brings.

But tomorrow is still a sunrise away.

This is _tonight_ , her body arched and his hands prying her open, his elbows braced against her thighs. This is _now_ , him finally taking mercy on her cries and pleading and pressing his lips and tongue against her sex, sucking hard on that tiny pearl of flesh and making her scream, all submission forgotten as she jolts away. This is _him_ , gripping so tight she’ll be bruised by morning as he keeps her legs spread. She cries, screams, arcs against him as waves of intensity wash over her, building and crashing and she feels so _alive_ , awake and vibrant in her own skin, like a thousand little electric jolts are rippling through her as her hips lift and her breath catches and she climaxes hard and fast against his mouth.

But then he keeps _going_ , and it _hurts_ as he bears down on her swollen clit, lips wrapped tight over the wet flesh and sucking so that she can’t escape. She forgets his command, tries to grip his horns and pull him in so they can kiss and maybe make love sweet and gentle but he growls “ _enough_ ” and her hands fall away.

“You will _always_ be safe with me. But you need to trust me,” he murmurs, softening the rebuke by kissing the bone of her hip. “Give me your hands.”

She obeys without thinking, extending them palms-up in supplication. He loops her hair ribbon over her wrists, tying the ends into a loose bow. Not tight enough for true restraint, but he could bind her with a thread and she would feel just as weak.

“Let me take care of you. If you are uncomfortable or scared, tell me and I will stop. But trust me when I say I _will_ take care of you.”

Her vision’s blurry now, thick with tears—and why is she crying? She’s not sad, but oh this is _intense_ and so much more than she thought it would be—but she nods and he goes back between her legs, sucking and licking and working her into a frenzy as her body squirms one way then another, never able to escape his strong hands and wet tongue. He plays her like an instrument, varying the suction and the pressure of his fingers to alter her moans, her yelps going high, higher, highest, a crescendo of pleasure and for one terrifying moment she stares at the windows to make sure they’re closed or else her screams would be spilling all over the courtyard.

 The ribbon keeps her focused though, reminds her to keep her hands together because when she starts to reach, the satin pulls oh-so-slightly against the delicate skin of her wrists, whispering over the pulse and she remembers. This is what _he_ wants, and he wants to please her, to leave her weak and begging and she cannot deny him. Not when he makes her peak again, then again, never stopping and she’s in tears when finally he sits up slides a hand under her hip, rolling her onto her side. With a slap on her buttock—firm, frisky, not much sting but she still jolts and stares at him, wide-eyed and panting—he commands “to your desk. Bend over.”

It’s the most arduous walk she’s ever taken—even more difficult than stumbling through the snow after the assault on Haven, even in a warm room with rugs beneath her bare toes because Bull’s gaze is a heavy weight and her legs are like water—but she tries, and Bull catches her at each stumble. She wants him to carry her and lay her in place; better yet, take her back to the bed and press her body beneath his, but she knows if she asks he’ll just say some infuriating thing about wants versus needs and this whole mess of roles and responsibilities is so frustratingly _Qunari_ but that’s part of the appeal. She cannot live her live in subservience to the Qun, but she can relinquish a little control to one of its former followers.

She leans on the desk, a stray paper caught beneath her elbows and her breasts brushing the polished surface. Smooth wood and textured lace, somehow blurring together as she waits with trembling thighs for Bull to get behind her.

Instead, she hears him step away, returning and touching something against her feet. She glances down, spotting her dropped copy of _Swords and Shields_.

“I am going to fuck you, but you need to stand on the book. Our heights don’t work otherwise.”

Biting her lip, she tilts forward onto the balls of her feet to let him slide the book beneath her heels. That tiny bit of height seems to please him, since he grunts before standing up. His hands squeeze her hips, propping her into position as his cock pushes against her wet opening. She whimpers, trying to spread her legs as best she can while still standing on the book.

He cups her buttocks, pulling apart and her blush is hidden beneath her hair as he asks “ever had anal sex before?”

“No.”

“Some other time, then.”

She wants to ask how he’s so sure there will _be_ another time but suddenly realizes that she hasn’t actually seen him naked. She’s bent over and still wearing her bra, but he’s seen her in her entirety, while she knows little beyond his bare chest and feverish speculation. She opens her mouth to ask if she can at least look at him, admire him, study him like art and color in those gray areas of fantasy and wonder but he thrusts into her and she keens. It’s hard and painful and she’s _wet_ , it’s not a question of lubrication but he moves rough and fast, mashing her breasts into the desk and twisting one hand through her hair, gripping tight to the scalp and she almost begs him to stop except that _this_ is what she had been expecting with the Iron Bull— hard, powerful, his thighs slapping against hers and making her flesh jiggle.

She had _not_ been expecting him to reach his other hand around her, pressing a finger over her clit and rubbing as his body grinds into hers. She had _not_ been expecting him to keep his grip in her hair and pull back, making her bend and exposing her throat as he growls “the mighty Inquisitor enjoys being told what to do. Yes or no?”

“ _Yes_.”

Somehow, that small confession makes this all easier. So much easier to focus on warm flesh and sharp teeth, him biting her shoulder and her hips rocking against him. Because she loves this, she wants this, she wants _him_ and she doesn’t know if it’s love because love shouldn’t leave her shaking like a leaf or sick with uncertainty but she loves the way they fit together. She loves his confidence, the way all the thousand uncertainties of responsibility crash about him like the sea and yet he remains standing.

“So come for me.”

With him thrusting and his hand on her clit and his mouth on her ear, how can she not?

Each climax is a gift—his gift to her, or perhaps hers for him. But she screams and moans, the world contracting all around her to a single incandescent point, of _here_ and _now_ and the ribbon’s loose around her wrists and her hands could slip out so easily but she’s too lost in orgasm to care as her body rocks and she collapses on the desk, supported on her belly and forearms and Bull still thrusting into her until she remembers a very important thing.

“Bull, I—I’m not using any contraception. Please, we can’t—“

“Understood.”

So he pulls out and she almost wails—not that she thinks she could take any more, but because she hadn’t meant he had to _stop_ —until she feels a hot spatter hit her lower back, puddling in the dip of her spine as Bull groans long and slow.

“You look _very_ good this way.”

She wants to ask whether he means exhausted and well-fucked, or with his seed on her skin, or bent over like this, but fears his response might be a maddening ‘yes.’

“But you made a mess. Turn around and clean up.”

Neasa pushes herself upright, gaze dropping to the floor and afraid she somehow dripped over Cassandra’s book and she could _never_ look the Seeker in the face again if so, but instead he gestures to his cock, still slick and half-hard.

“Suck. Clean me off.”

Her body obeys before her mind catches on, knees hitting the floor and his hot seed trickling down the crack of her buttocks as she kneels before him. She pauses, studying his girth and the dark hairs trailing over his belly, thinking _oh_. She never much considered the aesthetics of cock, but he looks _nice_.

He interrupts her thoughts with a soft growl, pushing the back of her head and bumping her nose against his shaft. “Perhaps you think I’m asking?”

She opens her mouth, wrapping her lips about the tip of his cock and probing her tongue against his opening to catch the last of his climax. He tastes of salt and musk, mingling with her own juices and she would blush had she any shame left but she already used it up admitting that she likes being ordered around. One hand encircles the base and her other rests against his leg, elbow touching his brace and she halts, afraid of pressing too hard until he chuckles.

“You think you will break me?”

So she relaxes, leaning into him and licking him clean, sucking and swallowing until the only gleam left on him is her saliva. Despite her best efforts, she cannot keep the ribbon binding her hands from getting damp and resigns herself to washing it.

But when she starts to pull back, he presses his fingers to the back of her head. “Not done yet.”

A few moments before realization dawns, and _now_ she blushes, leaning forward again and brushing her nose against the fine hairs coating his balls. Soft licks, gentle flicks of her tongue over the tender skin, and she gathers the last of the residual sex smells.

“Very good.”

He allows her to stand and unties the ribbon before scooping her into his arms. He kisses the base of her horns before laying her in the bed, starting to tuck the blankets around her before she begs “please. You promised. Stay until morning.”

“This was a lot for a first time, wasn’t it?”

She wishes she could read his tones better, but perhaps that’s another part of the Ben-Hassrath training he always goes on about—she’s not sure if there’s concern or amusement as he settles beside her, lying on his back and his horns spanning the bed. She nestles in the crook of his shoulder, curled towards him with one leg over his and her nose brushing his chest. The pattern of his vitaar swims beneath her (and she wants to ask if he was afraid she’d bite, or if he fears anything at all) and she fancies she could trace bitter constellations with her tongue, but that feels too playful and intimate. Sex is not intimacy—but she hopes this meant more to him than a visit to the healer.

There is so much she wants to talk about, but she’s afraid of shattering this small peace between them. Far easier to sink into comfortable warmth and enjoy the feel of his body against hers, his breathing slow and steady and his heart pulsing a lover’s rhythm beneath her ear as sleep washes over her.

She wakes to an empty bed, cold and lonely even in the warmth of the covers. There’s still sex on her tongue and slickness between her thighs as she finds the note on her pillow.

 “ _Neasa, I have to run training exercises with the Chargers, but you know where to find me if you need me. Take care.”_

She realizes they never kissed goodnight.


End file.
